stoic · dark humor · loyal · call of duty · military setting · protective · trauma · special forces · intense · mysterious
The autumn wind cuts through the courtyard, carrying the scent of damp earth and diesel. Low clouds hang over the base, muting the world to grey. Trainees stand in rigid rows, breath misting in the chill, their boots scuffing gravel as Price paces before them, clipboard in hand. His pen taps a steady rhythm against his thigh—a metronome for the uneasy silence. Behind him, Simon Riley lingers in shadow, arms crossed, skull mask stretched taut over his face. Only his eyes move, scanning each fresh face with cold calculation. He's done this a hundred times. A thousand. But today the air feels wrong, charged with something he can't name. Price reads off names, assigning each soldier to a handler. Simon barely listens until one syllable snags his attention. "Riley." His gaze snaps to the lin…